Hell of a Job
by LiquidLash
Summary: A small collection of drabbles spawned as I work my way through series two! Random number three, Copy and Paste: Ianto is working his way through the Archives once again when a name on a file catches his eye...
1. To The End

**Author note: **I watched _To The Last Man_ this morning and... well... _this_ happened. Small ramble. Bless Tosh. Comments?

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**To the End**

This is what you do.

You put your heart in a box and pray it won't be broken

Inevitable as the pain is, you hold onto that box; you hope.

Then, when the inevitable inevitability ensues, when your heart lies shattered in the gutter, there's always somewhere to put the pieces....

That is what you do.

Toshiko knows this, and that's why she refastens the box holding Tommy's clothes while blinking unshed tears from her eyes, why she won't meet anyone else's sympathetic gaze, why she moves onward with the hope that, when the time comes again, she won't be as foolish.

Because that's what you do... that's what you have to do to carry on.

Right to the end.


	2. Soliloquy of a StunGun

**Author note:** Watching the episode _Meat_, have you noticed how similar Ianto's expression when he's got his hands tied and the gun to his chest, have you seen the similarity between that and when he was held at knife-point in _Countrycide_? Maybe it was just me. Anyway, it spawned this little drabble...

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**Soliloquy of a Stun-Gun **

It all comes flooding back.

The rope.

The blood.

The _rotting flesh_.

Panic rises under the surface as Ianto is thrust forward. His balance unsteady now that his hands are tied. The cool metal of the gun pressing into his chest feels like the only thing keeping him standing.

The panic, the rope, the blood, the rot.

All of it, flooding back.

The humiliating helplessness..

Not this time. Not on his watch.

The rope can't hold him back. He frees himself, going for the man who held him at gun point, the man who, despite all Ianto's promises to himself of 'never again' and 'I will be stronger next time', made him weak and helpless: a bargaining tool against his team.

Ianto had promised himself he'd never become that again, not in front of Jack.

He frees himself and floors the man. They scuffle, they fight. A punch to his lower back; the hot pain of it floods his system and he wheezes...

But he doesn't stop.

Not when Jack's watching.

He follows them, the two men. Finds them in their office. They try to stop him.

It's pitiful.

Ianto stuns one straight off, then advances on the other. Dale, his boiling mind supplies, that's the man's name.

Not that it matters. Not when Ianto can see the angry fear spasming over Greg's face, and know that he will never ever reduce himself to that again.

Not when he can prove himself.

"Pray they survive."


	3. Copy and Paste

**Author note:** This is a sort of informal continuation of the second chapter of my drabble collection, There's Always An Antidote. The two can be linked, if you like, but I thought they'd be better apart... different tones and such... Anyhoo, read on, please comment, I'd love to know what you think.

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Copy and Paste**

The Archives: row after row and room after room of accumulated alien matter. Because if it's Alien, it's Ours.

And reports. Don't forget the reports. There were a lot of reports.

A year and a half had gone by since Ianto first began computerising Torchwood's records and for a secret organisation, there was a surprising amount. Dockets, orders, agendas, sexual harassment forms... All of it needed storing because you never know.

Ianto paused halfway through the 1940's shelf. A familiar name catching his eyes. He pulled the file out with caution and raised an exasperated eyebrow as the aged bindings gave way and most of the contents fluttered to the floor. One small glossy square, anchored to the manila by a rusted paperclip, was all that remained. A face glowered up at him in shades of grey and brown and Ianto smiled sadly.

"Of course you haven't changed," he murmured, tracing Jack's faded jaw line.

With a heavy sensation weighing in his chest, Ianto gathered up the fallen papers and took them back to his computer desk at the back of the room. Not a day went by when Ianto wouldn't copy up at least one box of the records, and it was hard going at times: understanding handwriting and spelling errors of the dead, archaic grammar and presentation, scanning the photos of those dead and gone.

Having to deal with one of Jack's many folders was something of a relief, even if it was in the wrong section...

"Name, then category, then date within that frame," muttered Ianto as he settled behind the desk, bringing up Jack's database. He had one all to himself, it was the only way. Jack would most likely be around forever.

Ianto wondered, just for a moment, who would deal with his own files and details after he was gone, and who would categorise and sort through all this dusty mess? It was a grim thought, he knew. Ianto dismissed it, forcing a smile onto his face as he looked through the file, ready to type.


End file.
